


Mistletoe Sniffles

by PenguinofProse



Series: Penguin's festive fics [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mistletoe, Mistletoe allergy, SO MUCH FLUFF, Wells lives, festive fluff, seasonal fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27688516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenguinofProse/pseuds/PenguinofProse
Summary: In which Wells lives, Clarke sneezes, and Bellamy makes a fuss.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Series: Penguin's festive fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024797
Comments: 34
Kudos: 192





	Mistletoe Sniffles

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to the first festive fic I plan to post this year. We've got S1 vibes but with Wells living and mistletoe everywhere. I'm sorry, I know it's November. But I'm a very excitable Penguin and also if I wait until December I won't have enough time to write and post all my plans! This is unbetaed and a little too spontaneous - happy reading!

Clarke knows Wells is responsible for the mistletoe. It's not just the fact that he was consistently top of the class in botany. She also remembers far too many conversations with him when they were young about how he dreamed of spending Christmas on Earth and being caught beneath the mistletoe by a cute guy who'd treat him right. So she's absolutely certain that her best friend is behind it.

The question, of course, is _why_.

She spends a long time trying to figure out which cute guy he's trying to catch. And she finds it a little odd, too, because for all that she knows Wells has this dream, she sort of considers him too honest to go around trapping his crush into a kiss. She'd have thought him more likely to invite his crush on a romantic walk to the place where the mistletoe grows, or something like that.

All the same, she sticks at it. She considers Monty for a while, but he seems to be into Harper. She considers Miller, but he's devoted to his missing boyfriend. She considers Raven, because she knows Wells swings both ways, too, although he tends to prefer guys. She tries and she tries, but she just cannot see Wells paying special attention to _anyone_.

She corners him and asks outright, in the end. Partly out of concern for her friend's happiness, but largely because the stuff hanging everywhere is annoying her. She finds herself sniffling a lot more, wonders whether it's releasing something into the air that disagrees with her sinuses.

"Who's the mistletoe for?" She asks, a little sharp, a little grumpier than she intended.

"It's for you." Wells says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

She panics, pure and simple. She thought they were past this phase. She thought Wells had realised that wasn't on the cards and moved on. She thought -

"I'm trying to help you and Bellamy get together. Look, I put some in the med bay and outside his cabin. Do you think I should put more around the fire pit? Or by the water barrels? Where do you usually -"

"Me and Bellamy?" She asks, somewhere between stunned and outraged.

"Yeah. You and Bellamy. Obviously."

"Ob – obviously?" She asks, flustered. Is it obvious? What is _it_ , anyway? She's not about to snog Bellamy. It's a ridiculous idea.

"Yeah. You can't tell me you can be close bickering friends with a guy who looks like _that_ and not be interested, Clarke. And I know you. I know what it means when you stare at his mouth like that."

"He's not interested." She says, because she can't claim _she's_ not interested, or claim she hasn't been staring at his mouth. Those would be lies. So she figures she ought to distract Wells with this instead.

Wells snorts, unimpressed. "He's so interested. He spends every spare moment with you and he never stops smirking that little smirk when you're around. Not to mention he hasn't taken anyone back to his tent since, what, October?"

"November third." She corrects him, hating herself for knowing it.

"November third?"

"November third. Bree."

"Hey, I still fancy your chances. She looks like you." Wells says, as if that matters at all.

It's not her looks Clarke is worried about. She knows she's objectively not unattractive. She's more worried about whether Bellamy would be interested in a young woman barely older than his sister who likes to argue with him about anything and everything, sometimes tries to boss him around, takes the lead whether he likes it or not. And she would want him to be interested in a serious and lasting kind of a way – he's her good friend who happens to be hot, so she'd need it to be something meaningful. She wouldn't be happy with a quick screw and then moving on.

"He doesn't see me like that." She declares, final, quelling.

"Clarke -"

"Take down the mistletoe. _Please_. It's making my nose run."

Wells snorts. "That's a crap excuse, Clarke. No one's allergic to mistletoe. I know you're nervous but the mistletoe stays."

Clarke's pretty sure she is allergic to mistletoe, actually. But Wells thinks far too highly of his understanding of botany – and of romance, apparently – to hang around and argue. Before she's had so much as half a second to gather some words on her tongue, he is gone, striding off across the camp.

She's pretty sure this is the first time in her life that Wells has ever refused to do what she wants. She can't decide whether to be more horrified or proud.

…...

The mistletoe stays. Clarke's nose keeps running – or rather, it gets worse, as more and more mistletoe appears, outside her cabin, by the woodshed, even over the camp gates so that anyone and everyone will presumably be caught eventually.

There are other signs of festive spirit, too. Apparently these kids are well versed in the literature, media and traditions of Earth before the bombs. Jasper makes a few small fireworks and calls them Christmas crackers, Monty decides that his next batch of moonshine is really eggnog in disguise.

Clarke doesn't appreciate any of these things. She's too busy sniffing.

…...

People notice, of course. Jasper and Monty make a bit of a fuss over her supposed cold, offer her hot drinks and their spare blankets. Harper offers sympathy and fierce words of encouragement. Even Raven softens, just for a few moments, just to tell Clarke to get better soon.

She's kind of hurt that the only person she considers a close friend who has said nothing about her runny nose is Bellamy. And she's annoyed, too, because even if she thought she was objectively not unattractive before, she knows she doesn't look so hot when her nose is streaming and her eyes have started to water constantly, too.

But she presses on. She sets a broken arm when Stirling slips on some snow. She oversees the preparations for Christmas dinner, until she sneezes near the meat once too often and Finn sends her gently back to her cabin.

So that's where she is – lying alone in her cabin on Christmas eve, listening to the bustle of camp going on around her – when Bellamy walks in without so much as knocking.

He launches into a torrent of words right away.

"I know you hate it when people make a fuss. I saw the look on your face when Jasper was trying to check your temperature the other day. But I can't keep quiet about this any longer, Clarke. You're _sick_. And I'm worried this is more than a cold because it's been going on a couple of weeks and I'm -"

"It's the mistletoe." She interrupts him, in a quiet but upsettingly nasal voice.

"The mistletoe?" He repeats back, jaw tight.

"Yeah. I'm sure of it. But Wells doesn't believe I can be allergic to mistletoe, he keeps giving me pine needle tea and telling me my cold will go away soon. But I'm _certain_ I'm right."

Bellamy nods, stiff, almost jerky. "I believe you. Or – I want to believe you." He swallows loudly. "I don't want you to get sick."

"I thought you hadn't noticed." She says, aware that she sounds pathetic, but too sniffly to care. She thinks it's probably acceptable to be a little pathetic, just now.

"Of course I noticed. I just didn't want to annoy you by hovering and tucking blankets around your shoulders every five seconds like everyone else was doing."

"I might not be so annoyed if it was _you_ doing that."

The words are out of her mouth before she can think better of them. Damn it. She could swear she used to be rather more in control of her own tongue, but apparently two weeks of constant sneezing isn't good for her strength of spirit. She bites her lip, sits there in the silence, and waits for Bellamy to laugh, or storm off, or tell her she's a delusional fool.

Except that he does none of those things. He walks a little closer and then – miracle of miracles – he perches on the edge of her bed and starts tucking in her blankets around her.

"OK." He murmurs, face soft with concern and not at all like the tense expression he walked in here with. "So here's what's going to happen. I'm going to leave you here for a minute while I go take down every damn piece of mistletoe that's anywhere near my cabin. Then I'm going to come back here and get you. I'm going to carry you across camp – right past Finn, preferably – and then I'm going to take you to my cabin and take care of you until you're feeling better. Is that OK, Clarke?"

She frowns, confused. Who is this guy and what has he done with Bellamy Blake? She knows he's capable of being soft and caring – she's seen that side of him with his sister and the younger kids, and even implicitly directed towards her, on occasion, although he usually covers it with a teasing joke. But she's never known him to make a display of taking care of her before. And what does showing off his plan to Finn have to do with anything?

What the hell is this? Has she walked straight into one of her own daydreams?

"Is that OK, Clarke?" He repeats carefully, interrupting her thoughts. "Can I take care of you like I've been wishing I could ever since you got sick?"

She nods, wordless. He nods, smiling a small smile. And then he lets out a little chuckle, as he reaches down to squeeze her shoulder.

"You know next time maybe you could just start by telling me I'm allowed to make a fuss of you. It would have saved me two weeks of being frantic about you from a distance."

With that he is gone, walking back out the door with just one last, lingering glance over his shoulder as he goes.

…...

It ought to be embarrassing, being carried through camp by Bellamy. Clarke only has a runny nose. She can walk.

And yet she finds that it's lovely to take the weight off her feet for once in her life. It's beautiful to have someone else taking care of her – not in the fussy, panicked way the kids were worrying about the health of their doctor and mother figure. But in a more personal, genuine, calm and collected sort of a way.

So, yes, being carried across camp is good. But what happens in Bellamy's cabin is better.

He tucks her into the bed – _his_ bed, which smells like him – and then perches on the edge to speak to her.

"Can I get you anything? Pine needle tea? More blankets?"

She swallows thickly. She's really not feeling that sick in herself – just very full of phlegm. And so she shouldn't lie here all pathetically and let Bellamy put in so much effort. She seems to remember that she doesn't like people to crowd around and patronise her.

Except that this doesn't feel patronising in the slightest. It feels like someone else has everything under control, for the first time since she landed on this crazy planet. And most of all it feels like Bellamy is doing this because he _wants_ to – because he actually cares about her wellbeing as a person – not out of fear or obligation.

It's kind of beautiful.

She gathers her courage, has a go at speaking her mind.

"I don't need anything like that. But some company would be great if you've got a minute." He stiffens. She panics, tries to repair the damage. "I mean, I get that you must be busy -"

"It's not that." He rushes to assure her. "I'm just feeling bad that I left you to yourself all this time. I honestly thought you'd get mad if I tried to interfere." He mutters, sheepish.

"I could never be mad at you." She lies teasingly.

"Wow. You must be more sick than I thought if your memory's gone." He jokes right back at her.

She grins. "Maybe I'm not that sick. I'm pretty sure I wasn't sick enough to need carrying across camp, either, but that didn't seem to stop you."

He laughs, shuffles a bit further back onto the bed. Her knee is pressing up against his butt cheek through the covers and that didn't ought to be a sexy thing at all, in her current state. And yet everything about this guy is attractive to her in this moment, so she flushes all the same.

"You sure it's just the mistletoe? You look a little warm." He offers, right on cue.

She makes a point of rolling her eyes at him. "I'm fine. I'm the doctor round here, remember? Just stop asking questions and tell me one of your Roman stories."

He grins at her, pleased with her bickering. Good. That's what she was hoping for.

She doesn't much care for ancient myths, as it happens. But she wants Bellamy to stay and keep her company, and this seems like a good place to start.

…...

He sleeps in the bed that night. Obviously he does – it's his bed.

Neither of them says anything about it. Rather, it just happens. Bellamy sleeps there, and then he wakes up there. It's a small bed, so they spend the night pressed up against each other.

Clarke's almost disappointed that nothing is said. Is she perhaps so deeply unattractive with her nose streaming that Bellamy is not interested in making a move or acknowledging their physical closeness, even whilst he's made a point of acknowledging the depth of their friendship since he brought her here and made such a show of his concern for her?

Whatever. There's no sense in worrying about it. Whether Bellamy wants to jump her bones or simply continue to work at her side, she still got a night full of cuddles, and that's better than nothing.

…...

She spends Christmas day in bed. In _Bellamy's_ bed, of course, because that seems to be her home now.

He's the perfect nurse – not patronising, but deeply caring. He spends much of Christmas morning chatting with her, then shows up at lunch time with a large plate of roast meat.

"Didn't want you to miss out." He tells her, depositing the food by her bedside.

"I'm not that sick. I could have walked to the food." She protests because, again, she's really not at death's door here.

"Only way you're ever leaving this cabin again is if I get to carry you past Finn's jealous face." Bellamy jokes easily.

She gasps slightly, tries to cover it with a sneeze that is only partially staged. Bellamy hands her a handkerchief and she takes her time cleaning up while she gathers her thoughts.

God, she really is gross and snotty. It's no wonder he didn't try anything last night while they slept so close together.

"Let's just hope there are no medical emergencies while you've got me locked up in here." She offers. As flirting goes, she thinks it's pretty poor. She's a little disappointed with herself. But in her defence, she's still struggling to make sense of that joke which implied he _wanted_ to make Finn jealous.

He laughs, hands her another handkerchief for good measure. "Relax. You know I'm only joking. I want you to get better and get back on with running around the place. But for the record, I _do_ like Finn's jealous face."

He strides out the door before she has chance to ask him what that even means.

…...

Wells stops by, later that evening. He offers Clarke a cheery wave, says that he won't hug her because he doesn't want to catch her cold.

"I'm not sick. It's the mistletoe." She protests, for perhaps the hundredth time.

At least, she hopes that's true. Otherwise it occurs to her that Bellamy is going to get sick, what with all this carrying and cuddling.

Wells snorts, shakes his head. "Keep telling yourself that. No one's allergic to mistletoe, Clarke. And I don't know why you're still complaining about it – you got the guy, didn't you?"

"I did not _get the guy_." Clarke argues, somewhere between amused and exasperated.

"What do you call sleeping in his bed?" Wells asks, incredulous.

"I mean it's not like that. We're not together like that. He's just being a good friend."

Another snort, a shake of the head. "Clarke. I've been your best friend since I was _born_. And while you've been sick I've offered you hot tea and taken over your chores around the camp. I have not _carried you to my bed_."

Clarke frowns. She supposes that's true. Carrying someone to one's bed does seem like a pretty unambiguously romantic gesture. And there's that whole conversation they had earlier about Finn's jealous face, too.

But why such courteous cuddling, if Bellamy really feels that way? Why has he never said anything, when Clarke has been staring at his mouth for three months now? Sure, she acknowledges that she could have said something, too, but seeing as he has more experience and confidence – and even options – in this particular area she doesn't think it's wrong of her to presume he might take the lead.

She frowns harder. Maybe Wells is onto something. Maybe this is a logic puzzle to figure out when she can actually breathe through her nose and her eyes have stopped streaming.

Wells knows he has won, of course. It's evident in the way he nods, well-pleased, and turns for the door.

"I guess that's my Christmas present to you." He says idly.

"We're not doing Christmas presents." Clarke reminds him. That's a camp-wide rule, while they have so few resources to spare.

"We are now. My present to you is setting you up with Bellamy." Wells offers, smug. "And your present to me is the gift of seeing you happy."

Clarke shakes her head, exasperated and fond. She's still convinced she's right about the mistletoe allergy. But maybe Wells is onto something with the rest of it, after all.

…...

Clarke grows more convinced, the longer she stays in Bellamy's bed. She's been here four days now, and her symptoms have vanished, but he doesn't seem to be expecting her to leave any time soon.

It's on the fifth morning that things truly become ridiculous.

"You want me to go and get you some tea?" Bellamy murmurs against the back of her neck, his arm wrapped tight around her waist, even his legs curled up with hers.

No. This is it. This is _absurd_. He's spooning her as if they're lovers, offering her hot tea as if she's some kind of invalid when she hasn't sneezed in twenty-one hours. She knows that, because she's been keeping count. She's been keeping count while she wondered when the hell he would acknowledge that she's no longer sick.

"I'm not sick." She says plainly.

There's a moment's pause. She hears Bellamy suck in a loud breath, wonders what on Earth is coming next.

"I could still get you hot tea." He offers carefully.

"Bellamy -"

"I could still get you hot tea." He repeats, firmer. "I could still tuck you into bed every evening and hold you every night. I could even carry you around camp if you like but I think that would get some funny looks and I know you're too independent to put up with that for long." He swallows loudly. "I just want to take care of you. You deserve that. And I want to show you how much I care about you."

She holds it together, very carefully. She does not gasp in shock or crumple in relief. She needs to know exactly what he means – so far he's not said anything about an actual sexual and romantic relationship, as far as she can tell.

She rolls over slowly to face him. It's difficult, because it's a small bed, and she ends up with her nose almost pressed against his cheek. She can pick out his tense jaw in the half-darkness, the nervous crease of his mouth, and the warmth in his eyes.

"I wish I could take care of you too." She murmurs. "It sounds like you've spent your whole life taking care of other people. Maybe I want to bring _you_ hot tea in the mornings."

"OK." He says easily.

"OK?"

"Yeah. You bring the tea. I call shotgun on pulling up the blankets over you though. We can maybe alternate who's big spoon? I like to be little spoon once in a while."

She nods absently. She can't believe they're talking about morning tea logistics like some old married couple, planning who will spoon whom, when she still doesn't know what kind of crazy relationship Bellamy even has in mind. Is this some special new kind of dysfunctional friendship he's invented specifically for them? Where they live together and spoon together but that's about it? The sad thing is, that wouldn't even surprise her. They have an odd friendship, between the weeping beneath a tree that started it, and the bickering and careful protectiveness that have sustained it ever since.

"Clarke?" Bellamy prompts, nuzzling slightly against her cheek.

"Sorry. Yeah. I'm just trying to understand... how this works." She says, purposefully vague, rather hoping he might fill in a few blanks for her.

He snorts. "Of course. You're Clarke. You need us to plan everything. So I figure I should get meals, so I can make sure you eat even if you're working late in med bay. If – uh – if you wanted to give me a back rub sometimes, that's something I would really like."

"I can do that." She agrees easily. "I'd _love_ that." She corrects herself, slightly overexcited.

"Great. And I mean, you're not asking for us to plan our sex life, right? I guess I figured we would just see where it goes, maybe try to alternate who we focus on if it turns out our fuses are very different lengths. I know some people say that's a problem but honestly I think if we both want to make it work -"

She cuts him off with a kiss. It's not a hard, eager kiss to interrupt him. It's a soft, tender kiss, to show that she understands, now. She understands that they're going to take care of each other in every possible way, that Bellamy is interested in this every bit as much as she is.

It's a good kiss. It's a perfect fit for lazy mornings and planning hot tea and a tender life together. She knows romance will not always be like this on Earth. She knows that there will be bruising kisses of reassurance in the midst of disaster, frantic kisses of consolation in the midst of a crisis. But this is neither disaster nor crisis. It's just a lazy morning in the quiet aftermath of Christmas.

Clarke pulls away first, smiling softly. She'd quite happily kiss Bellamy all day, but she's got a tea run to make, and actually, there's something else she wants to fit in first, too. She wants to do something to show him how much she cares, after all the perfectly personal fuss he's made over her in recent days.

"Roll over on your front." She whispers to him.

"What are you doing?" He asks, brow quirked.

"You said you like a back rub. So roll over on your front and let me start your morning right. Then you can lie here and relax for a bit while I get you some tea."

"I'm not sick." He protests, teasing, brow quirked as if daring her to ask whether that was supposed to be an impression of her protests in recent days.

"But you still deserve to have someone take care of you." She insists firmly.

He admits defeat cheerfully enough, then, and rolls over onto his front. Clarke has never actually given a back rub before but she's sure it can't be too complicated – and anyway, it seems like Bellamy is pretty fond of her, so she can't see this being a total failure no matter what she does. She's probably even more excited about the idea than he is – she's been waiting for an excuse to check out his firm muscles for longer than she likes to admit.

She spares a moment, just a heartbeat, before she gets to work and has no concentration to spare from smoothing her hands over Bellamy's shoulders. And in that moment, one thought stands out loud and clear in her mind.

Wells is going to be so smug about this.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
